Binary Stars
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock has come to envy John's relationship with Mary, and decides he needs a relationship of his own. Sherlolly.


The two men had been carted off in the same ambulance, both insisting that it wasn't necessary, but neither actually mobile on their own. Dr. John Watson was sitting upright in the the rear, conversing with the paramedic who was currently attending to his friend, Sherlock Holmes. The detective had suffered a head injury and a grazing wound on his upper arm from a stray bullet. Unfortunately for John, the stray bullet had been fired by him. He was sure to hear about it in great detail for the foreseeable future, as it would be just too much to hope for that Sherlock's head wound had caused temporary amnesia.

"John, you shot me!", the detective said accusingly, ignoring the paramedic asking questions, trying to assess his condition.

"What makes you think it was me, mate. You were unconscious at the time," John replied sheepishly.

"Balance of probability. If the perpetrator had had a gun, he would have shot me. It would have been a more effective way to remove the threat. And he wouldn't have had to get so close. So, I deduce, that while I was lying there bleeding from having been bludgeoned by the always dependable blunt instrument, you approached, gun in hand, to effect my rescue. However, you were accosted by the same villain, with the same weapon. He must have jarred your arm, causing you to fire at random. Or, really, at me! I shall be scarred for life!"

"What's one more on that roadmap of scars you've accumulated over the years, mate. It will be an interesting story to tell down at the pub. Or impress a lady…"

"You forget to whom you speak, John."

"My attempt at humor. Forgive me. I'm sorry I shot you, Sherlock. It wasn't intentional, and it will never happen again. Okay?"

"I suppose I forgive you, John. But your family does seem to be making a habit of the practice."

"One shooting per spouse is hardly a habit. But it could become one if you don't shut up!"

"Did Lestrade get there in time? Has the suspect been apprehended? My recollection…"

"Yeah, they got him, mate. Greg heard the gunshot, and came running…"

"Why would some stranger named 'Greg' approach such a dangerous situation? Should he have not just called the police?"

"Lestrade, you arsehole! Greg Lestrade!"

"You could have just said that, John, without hurling epithets."

"You're lucky that's all I hurl. That man must have the patience of Job to put up with this name business for all these years!"

"Who, John?" the detective asked with an air of innocence. and a slight smile.

"Greg!"

"Who's that?"

John was almost ready to take out his weapon and shoot the man again, in a more vital place, when he caught the smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eye. "You really are a git, you know?"

"So I have been reliably informed, John." Sherlock now studied his friend, who appeared to have a look of concern, or anxiety on his face. "You need to call Mary, don't you? She will be worried."

John Watson heaved a small sigh. "I'll call her once we get to the hospital, Sherlock. Hearing all these sirens in the background will only worry her. Even if I assure her we're both well." And then he leaned back to spend the rest of the brief trip in silence.

Sherlock studied his friend in his unquiet repose. He was longing to make the call, the detective knew. And not just to assuage his wife's concerns. He knew that John needed to hear her voice as much as he imagined she needed to hear him. And the aloof detective envied him that. He envied him that closeness, that connectedness, to another human being, at the same time he tried to deny these feelings.

Sherlock Holmes did have friends. A few years ago he may have denied this fact. But, after jumping off a building to save some of them, he found that he could, no longer, continue to do so. John was important to him, his closest friend, in fact. John's wife, Mary, had come to matter to him, also. Greg Lestrade, whose name he did, indeed, know, despite his attempts to convince everyone otherwise, was of even longer acquaintance than John, and was held in high regard, although the socially inept sleuth was loathe to show it. Mrs. Hudson had been a second mother to him at Baker Street, and he held great affection for the elderly woman.

Sherlock also had family, who, though he seldom showed it, and even more seldom would admit to, he loved deeply. Mummy and Pappa could be a nuisance in their constant attempts to spend time with him, but he felt that he would wither and die without these attempts. And Mycroft? He was the big brother he loved to hate, and hated to love! And it seemed to him that he did both in equal measure.

But none of these personages were the Mary to his John. The one person whose very life roevolved around him, and around whom his own life revolved, like binary stars circling a single point. He smiled as he thought of the analogy. And to think that some people had made fun of his knowledge of astronomy and the solar system! But if he were to be part of a pair of twin stars, he would most definitely by the dark one! Perhaps a black hole would have been a better analogy, as he would, in fact, drain the light from any partner. But, he found himself reasoning, if the other star were bright enough, warm enough, brilliant enough, perhaps an equilibrium could be reached. An equally satisfying symbiotic relationship, with benefits for each and detriment to neither.

As soon as the siren was cut, and they had arrived at the hospital, John was on his mobile to his wife. Sherlock heard him explaining the situation, and attempting to ease her concerns.

"It's simply a sprained ankle, love. I tripped over Sherlock, who was, evidently napping on the warehouse floor. The x-rays are simply a precaution." John fell silent, smiling a bit, as Mary obviously gave him hell about taking chances, before asking about his companion. "No, no, he's fine. A bump on the head. He was unconscious for a bit, so they are worried about concussion. They may want to keep him, or we'll just bring him home with us, yeah? He may need someone to keep an eye on him."

When John finally ended the call, he was hurried off to x-ray, calling over his shoulder, "Mary's on her way, mate. Tell her I'll be back soon." Sherlock, who by then was resting comfortably in a bed in the A&amp;E at Guy's Hospital, merely nodded at him, picking up his own mobile to make his own call.

By the time John Watson had been returned to the A&amp;E from the x-ray department, sprain confirmed, no broken bones found, Mary was sitting by Sherlock's bedside. "You failed to tell your wife that you shot me, John. Something rather significant to leave out, don't you think?"

"Well, I was quite sure that you wouldn't neglect mentioning it, Sherlock. I shudder to think what colorful additions you have made to the story."

"Merely that you cackled joyfully when you saw my poor bleeding flesh, John."

"Don't believe him for a moment, Mary. He was unconscious!"

Mary looked at both of the bickering bosom buddies, and laughingly said, "I figured that he must have been unconscious or he never would have allowed them to cut open his precious Belstaff…"

Both Watsons grew mildly alarmed at the look of shock and horror on the detective's normally well-composed face. "My Belstaff?!"

"Yep. You may have only a scratch, mate, but I'm afraid your coat sustained a mortal wound. Sorry," John spoke quietly, but didn't sound in the least bit sorry at all.

Sherlock rested his head back on the pillow, saying, "Ah, well, all things must end. It had a good life. I remember once…"

"I can't believe the man without a heart is getting all sentimental about a bloody coat!" John said with a snicker. He then looked at his friend more carefully. "You'll have to come home with us, Sherlock. Or stay here for the night. I spoke with the emergency physician. You've suffered a slight concussion. Should not be a real problem, but you need to be observed for the next day or so…"

"Thank you, John, and Mary, for your kind offer. But I have made alternative arrangements." The detective was looking toward the entrance, smiling, as Dr. Molly Hooper made her way from the door to his side. The brilliant star to his black hole. Hopefully, soon to be Mary to his John.

Molly's look of concern had turned to a smile as she saw him sitting up, and seemingly still with all his faculties. His text messages to her had left her in some doubt. Talk about twin stars, and black holes, and symbiosis. She had chalked it all up to the head wound he had mentioned, but he seemed perfectly healthy now. Or, as healthy as one could be with a dressing on your head, and arm. She knew she had to come, as she would always come when he called, but especially on the off chance that the last three words which he had texted her could possibly be true.

"Ah, Molly. You've come to take me home! See, John, I told you I had made alternate arrangements. Molly will take care of me. Just as she always does." As he spoke, Sherlock took his pathologist's hand in his own.

Molly spoke to him for the first time. "Sherlock, are you sure you're alright? Some of your texts were a bit strange…"

"In what sense, Dr. Hooper?"

"You said that John had shot you, Sherlock! Surely…"

"Guilty as charged," John put in a bit sheepishly.

"And that whole twin stars thing?" As Molly spoke, John and Mary seemed a bit puzzled.

"Merely an analogy, Molly. I will explain in detail later."

"And the last?" She now looked a bit apprehensive, with a slight blush.

"Simply a statement of fact, Molly. I love you. I shall explain that in further detail when we get home if you…"

But further explanation became unnecessary as she brought her lips down to meet his and snog him rather thoroughly, to the amazement of the married couple sitting at his bedside. The kiss ended when Sherlock let out a small yelp as Molly inadvertently touched the dressing on his arm, lost in the kiss as she had been.

"Oh, god, Sherlock. I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?"

"It's only a scratch, Molly. Nothing to worry about. My Belstaff, however, was not so fortunate. Evidently it gave its life in an attempt to save me from John's callous assault!"

"Then we'll give it a proper burial. Or a cremation. Whatever you prefer. When we get home. And after you show me, several times, how much you love me…"

"That could take quite a while, Molly…", Sherlock started to say, but his words were once again lost as Molly forgot all about funeral arrangements.


End file.
